The Ice Storm
by AmbrosiaD
Summary: Starts the night of and just a little after the "Wanna screw around?" comment. Flashes back to the winter & explains how they got to this point. Ch.3 is a bit M.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Starts the night of and just a little after the "Wanna screw around?" comment. Flashes back to the winter and explains how they got to this point.

A.N.: I didn't edit obsessively over every word like I usually do, but I wanted to get this posted before Episode 2 blows all my theories and/or breaks my heart. ;)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Walking Dead.

"What did that sleeping bag ever do to you?" she asked the agitated form beside her.

She'd listened to Daryl toss and turn for at least half an hour.

"What?"

"Seems like you're beating it to death. I just wondered what it did."

"Real funny, Carol. Can't sleep. Somebody put some ideas in my head."

"Oh, really?" she feigned innocence. "Anything I can help with?"

"Out here in an open field with everyone else right over there? No thanks."

"I bet they wouldn't even notice," she said.

"You have any idea how loud you are?" he smirked.

"You never complained before."

"I ain't complainin'. Just be nice to have our own room again."

"Here I was thinking I was getting a real outdoorsman," she teased.

"You know I like privacy."

What she knew was that he could be painfully shy sometimes—over silly things like a back rub, especially if the others were too close for comfort. And yet he could be so shamelessly intimate sometimes, it made her knees tremble just thinking about it. She probably shouldn't tease him so much. But he was so damned cute when he blushed. And it made her happy that he let her get away with it.

"Scoot over here," she said.

She reached down into his sleeping bag. "Nobody's going to notice this," she said as her fingers worked their way under his waistband.

"What about you?" he asked.

"I can wait. But if we get into this prison, I think you and I have an appointment on the warden's desk."

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_**Three Months Earlier**_

The pewter February sky was ominous. After a mostly moderate couple of months, winter was finally arriving in the Southeast.

"If my aching knees aren't lying, Rick, those clouds look like they're fixing up a good, old fashioned ice storm," Hershel said. "We need to find a place to hunker down for a few days, maybe a week."

Rick slammed the map down on the hood of the car.

"Sorry if I'm stating the obvious," said Hershel.

"No, I'm not mad." Rick's weary face managed an apologetic smile. "Just frustrated." His gaze turned to Lori in the passenger seat behind the windshield. She was staring out the side window at nothing. Hershel and Daryl both saw it and exchanged a quick glance. They saw it all the time, how Rick and Lori would stare at each other when the other one was looking away. The couple seemed to have their own ice storm brewing.

"The weather was the one thing we had on our side lately," Rick said finally, looking away from his wife and back to the map.

"We dodged that last herd," Daryl spoke up. "We'll be a'right. Just need to find a little shelter. Ain't nothin' we can't handle." Somehow Daryl Dixon had become the voice of optimism.

"If I could just find something on this damn map," Rick exclaimed. "It's not as new as I would like, and I know things change, but I can't seem to find any place promising."

"Lemme see," Daryl said. "What's this here?" he pointed to a smudge in the middle of a large empty space half a mile from where they stood.

"Looks like grape jelly," said Hershel.

"God, we have to be more careful," sighed Rick.

"That ain't jelly," said Daryl. "It's ink." He leaned in over the paper, his nose almost touching it, and squinted hard. "Used to say somethin'."

"Great," Rick replied. "It used to say something. And I used to be a deputy, and the world used to be a beautiful place."

"Sorry, Brother," said Daryl. "But you need to chill the fuck out. It used to say, 'Approved.'"

"What does that mean?" asked Hershel.

"Place like this?" Daryl said. "Secluded, but close to town and highways? It'd be a developer's goldmine."

"I thought this was all State land," Rick said.

"State needs money, too," Daryl replied. "If this map is a couple years old, they could'a started buildin' somethin'. Let's check it out."

"Hershel, you stay here with T. Dog and the others," said Rick. "Daryl and I will go on the bike."

Carol stood by the truck, shivering despite wearing both her coat and Daryl's. "Everything all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," Daryl replied. "Rick and I are gonna go check something out. Might be a warm place to ride this shit out," he gestured toward the sky.

"You think it's going to snow?"

"Worse. Ice."

He climbed into the back of the truck to un-tether the bike and set up the ramp. Once it was securely on the ground, he turned to Carol. "Won't be long," he said. She knew that was as much of a goodbye and reassurance as she was going to get. And that was actually a lot coming from him.

"You better take your coat," she said, shaking it off her shoulders. It had become her own goodbye she used every time he went off on some mission. He was wearing the poncho, but she didn't think it was nearly warm enough.

She'd grabbed it for him out of a western store they'd raided back in December. "That's quite a fashion statement," he had said when she gave it to him.

"Well Merry Fucking Christmas to you too!" she'd blurted, then immediately covered her mouth and giggled.

She was changing. Oh, she'd never had a problem taking his ass to task about anything. But somewhere along the line she'd started to smile. And laugh. And tease him unmercifully. Bitch him out one minute for swearing, and cuss him up one side and down the other the next. God help him, but he liked it.

"A'right," he said, trying on the gift. "I think I can pull this off. Whaddaya think? Is it Clint Eastwood enough for ya?"

She rolled her eyes. "I got it because I thought it would work well with the crossbow."

She was right about that. It didn't interfere with his weapon, and it was pretty much all the warmth he'd needed for the last two months. But the air had suddenly turned bitter yesterday.

"No. You keep it," he said, grabbing the leather collar of his coat and sliding it back up over her shoulders. He fastened the zipper and zipped it up to her chin. He realized he stood there holding the zipper just a beat too long and thought he could feel his face turn pink. "Said we won't be long." He let go and pushed the bike over to Rick's car.

"Were you even going to say anything?" Lori was saying to Rick when Daryl caught up with him. "You were just going to take off and not say goodbye? Daryl is saying goodbye to Carol these days and you can't say shit to me?"

Rick shot an uncomfortable look at an equally uncomfortable Daryl.

"We'll be right back—within an hour," said Rick, practically leaping onto the bike behind Daryl.

They were barely 50 yards away when Daryl yelled over the engine, "You know, even Carol doesn't hold on that tight."

"Sorry." Rick relaxed his grip on Daryl's waist.

"It's a'right," said Daryl. "You're tense. You got old lady problems."

"Doesn't everyone?" Rick asked.

"Doesn't everyone what?"

"Have 'old lady problems.'"

"Not me," Daryl replied. "Ain't got no old lady."

"Yeah, right," Rick laughed.

They reached the spot on the map within minutes and stopped. What was once just forest now had three lines of new blacktop branching into it. A sign on the right said, "Construction Entrance." The one on the left said, "Construction Exit." The sign on the road straight ahead said, "Welcome to Inside Wade at the Intersection of Tradition and Tomorrow."

"What is this?" Rick asked.

"I was gonna ask who the fuck is Wade?" said Daryl.

"Good one. But seriously, where the hell are we?"

"Can't you read?" Daryl chuckled. "We're at the fucking intersection of Tradition and Tomorrow."

They headed straight and soon rode over a cobblestone bridge, its waist-high rock walls topped with black lanterns. It was painstakingly quaint. Instead of a meandering river or creek, however, the view below was that of a deep ditch full of construction debris. Soon after the bridge, the forest disappeared entirely. There was a rise in the road and they couldn't see what lay ahead. To the left and right, as far as the eye could see, was red clay littered with the wood and Tyvek skeletons of bungalows and townhouses that would never be finished.

"Carcasses," Rick spat. "Nothing but goddamn carcasses."

"Hold on now 'fore you get all hang-dog about it," Daryl said. "Let's see what's up ahead."

Just over the rise, they were greeted by a cobblestone traffic circle. Inside the circle was a black obelisk crowned with a metal sphere. "Fuckin' Yankee developers," Daryl laughed. "They never did understand we don't know a traffic circle from a hole in the ground."

"Look!" Rick exclaimed, pointing beyond the annoying roundabout.

"Well, I'll be damned," Daryl said. "Looks like they got somethin' done 'fore the shit hit the fan."

It appeared as if "Main Street" had been completed. It looped up one side and down the other with a wide, landscaped median dotted with white pergolas. The street was lined with about twenty mostly Craftsman style single family homes along with a few that were vaguely Tudor. There was a sliver of an alley between each house. All of them had front porches and cocktail napkin-sized front yards that ended at a sidewalk. There were signs in every yard. Five houses were model homes. Five were for sale. And ten of them said, "Private Residence."

"Your luck might change here, Rick," said Daryl.

"Why's that?" he asked.

"Looks like a place a Stepford wife might live."

"You'll excuse me if I don't laugh," Rick replied, but he couldn't hide the smile in his voice. This place was a real find. "We could stay in the models. Probably won't be any walkers in those—at least not many. It'd be nice to stay indoors and not feel like you were walking on somebody's grave."

"We can secure the private residences," Daryl said. "Probably find some food and supplies there. Gotta be somethin' left."

"It's perfect," said Rick, slapping Daryl on the back. "You think you and I can clear out the models now? Pick one that's right for the group?"

"Let's do it."

Daryl had never seen him look so relieved.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's a Yuppie Utopia!" laughed Maggie, standing on the front sidewalk.

"I believe the technical term is 'Yuptopia,'" Glen replied.

T. Dog walked in the front door first. "Oh, hell yeah," he said, reading the card propped on the entry table that said _Furnishings provided by Pottery Barn and Pottery Barn Kids_. "This is white people heaven up in here."

"More like Pottery Barn hell," Daryl smirked. "Seriously—this place look like somewhere I'd live?"

"Only if it had wheels under it," T. Dog laughed. "I stand corrected."

"A'right, funny man. Me and Carol are gonna start cleanin' out the private residences for supplies. Have fun pickin' out your room, but don't go out back."

"Something wrong back there?"

"No, ain't nothin' like that," Daryl explained. "Just a place for me to put my gear."

"What kinda gear you talking about?"

"Jesus—what's with the twenty fuckin' questions?" Daryl snapped. "I already cleared it with Rick. Just keep everybody in the house and leave the garage to me."

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The first floor of the house consisted of a small formal living room, a dining room, and an open concept kitchen/family room. Upstairs was the master bedroom and bath as well as two additional smaller bedrooms that shared a Jack and Jill bath.

"Oh my God!" Maggie exclaimed entering what had been designed as a boy's bedroom. "It's Nerd Land!"

Espresso colored bunk beds were adorned with Star Wars comforters and R2-D2 pillows. The walls sported Luke Skywalker and Han Solo decals. A Death-Star mobile hung from the ceiling and a Millennium Falcon replica sat on the dresser.

"Oh, yes! None of that prequel stuff! I'm calling dibs on this one," stated a wide-eyed Glen.

"Yeah—I had a feeling you would," said Maggie. "What about the bunk beds, though?"

"We're young and limber," he replied. "We'll figure it out."

"I don't know. You think maybe we should let Carl have it?" Maggie asked.

"Ha! Carl wants to sleep wherever your sister does."

"Over my daddy's dead body!" she laughed.

Just then, they heard a voice boom from the next room. "Over my dead body!"

Maggie and Glen barged through the bathroom and into what was obviously the "girl's room." Hershel glared at Beth and Carl who were bouncing on separate twin beds decked in pink, flowery bedspreads.

"Oh, Daddy," Maggie said. "Relax. They're just kids."

"Yes, and I'd like to keep them that way a little longer."

"I'm 17, Daddy!" Beth exclaimed. "Carl's like, what—12?"

"Hey! I'm 13!" Carl shouted indignantly.

"Come on, Hershel," said Glen, glancing at the tiny white table and chairs set topped with a pink, plastic tea set. "It's like Laura Ashley threw up in here. Not exactly a swinging bachelor pad. Besides, Maggie and I will be next door."

"Pardon me if I doubt you'll find the time for supervision," said Hershel.

Rick walked in from the hall. "Lori and I will be in the master right through that door. God knows we won't be too distracted to keep an ear out. Son," he turned to Carl, "behave and keep your hands to yourself."

"Yes sir," said Carl.

"Well, I don't have to like it," said Hershel.

"Come on, Hershel," said T. Dog from the hallway. "I found us a sweet crib on the third floor."

"I'm a little old for a crib, Theodore."

"Just follow me."

"I don't know how much more of this my knees can take," Hershel complained up the steep staircase.

"Wait'll you see this couch, man. You thought you liked your old one…"

"I never had to share my old one," said Hershel.

The third floor had been designed as a media/bonus room. It contained an enormous, u-shaped, slip-covered sectional.

"And look," said T. Dog, pointing at an air vent. "You can hear everything in Beth's room."

"This will do just fine," the older man smiled.

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Carol was in the kitchen sorting supplies when Daryl came up behind her. "Hate to tell you this, but everyone's already got rooms, and there's nothin' left for us."

He tried not to react to her look of disappointment when she turned toward him.

"Well… there's a couch in here," she frowned, gesturing toward the family room area, "and one in that front living room. Guess you could take the living room, so I could be in here to figure out breakfast in the morning."

"There's one more option," he said. "Follow me."

They walked out the back door. Across from a stone patio stood a small, white two-story building.

"What is this?" Carol asked. "A potting shed?"

"It's a garage."

"Oh, great. Even better. We're sleeping in a garage? I think I'll take my chances on the couch."

"Look up," Daryl said.

"Why would a garage have two stories?" she asked.

"I'll show ya."

They entered a door and walked up a staircase.

Upstairs was a guest room and full bath, separate from the house. There was a queen bed with an ivory, tufted headboard. The bed featured a thick duvet covered with a print of oversized red and yellow dahlias. It was piled high with pillows and draped in several throw blankets in shades of russet and buttery yellow. The bed was flanked by two black metal nightstands carefully staged to look as if the books sitting on top had been tossed there casually. One stack of books was crowned with a silver budvase.

A cream-colored dresser with bead board trim and iron drawer pulls stood against one wall. It was topped with dozens of candles in varied silver-plated holders. In true house-staging form, all the wicks had been previously, briefly lit so they looked as if someone had actually used them. Across from the dresser, beneath a window, was a crimson colored settee decked out with more pillows and throws. The walls were a pale blue and covered in bright canvases of poppies, sunflowers, tulips, and daisies. But the piece de resistance was on the wall directly across from the bed: an antique-white mantel framed a gas-burning fireplace.

"Oh, Daryl. What is this place?"

"From all the floor plans and brochures layin' 'round these models, about 50 grand extra is what it is."

"It's beautiful," she almost whispered.

"You like it?"

"Are you kidding? I love it! It couldn't get any better than this."

"You sure? 'Cause the gas line still works."

"We can have a fire?"

"Hell yeah. Let's do it."

Minutes later, they were sitting on the tiled hearth, both holding their palms as close to the fire as they dared.

"Fire always makes me think of the Lone Ranger and all that other cowboy shit," Daryl said.

"Really? That's not what it makes me think of at all," Carol laughed.

"What're you thinkin' 'bout?" he asked.

"I don't know… It's pretty romantic," she smiled. "Wanna screw around?"

He leapt up so fast she thought he'd burned his hand in the fire. His cheeks had turned the color of a lava lamp. He looked like he might be sick.

"Gosh, Daryl—if the thought of me makes you want to puke, forget it. It was just a joke."

"No—I ain't—you—you don't make me wanna puke. Jesus, woman! Can't a man gather his thoughts?"

He walked over to the settee and plopped down.

"Why did you bring me up here?" Carol asked quietly.

"I don't know. 'Cause I thought you'd like it?"

"I do. Thank you."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Maybe she shouldn't have said anything. She knew he was skittish. There was a time when she would've blamed herself. Ed used to say, "A woman like you oughtta be damn lucky you got a man." Ed's Carol would've thought, "Of course a man like Daryl Dixon wouldn't want you."

But Ed's Carol died when she took a pickaxe to his skull. And after Sophia… when she wasn't anyone's mother anymore and had long-since stopped being someone's doormat—she'd figured out how to be her own Carol. It started after the farm, in the light of the dying fire when she thought he was asleep. She heard the words clearly behind her and knew she wasn't dreaming. "Ya ain't no burden."

She woke up the next morning in that makeshift camp wondering how she could feel so warm. She was pretty sure they hadn't thought to bring any blankets. She was right. That was not a blanket wrapped around her. It was Daryl Dixon. Feeling his hardness pressing into her, she could sense from his breathing that he was awake. He nearly jumped a mile when he realized she was too. "Goin' huntin'," he muttered.

Every morning after, whether they camped out or found a safe house, she awoke to much the same situation. But each time, he jumped a little less and stayed a little longer. He looked like a man who should've had hundreds of women. But she could tell that somehow wasn't the case. She didn't know what had happened to him—wasn't sure if she wanted to know. Her eyes still teared up when she thought of those scars she'd seen on his back. No, nothing could be gained by delving into either of their pasts. She just wanted to move forward. He made her feel like there was a future she might actually want to be a part of.

Now she just hoped she hadn't blown it.

"Your thoughts gathered yet?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Are you going to sleep in that little bitty chair tonight?" she winked.

"No."

She stood up from the hearth. "Let's go get some dinner."

"I need a drink," he said.

"Let's get you a bottle," she smiled, as they descended the staircase.


	3. Chapter 3

When they searched the private residences, Daryl had been happy to find that there was no shortage of wine in "Yuptopia." He had not, however, been able to make heads or tails out of most of the food he and Carol had gathered. Along with cans of shredded chicken, there were more kinds of olives than he knew existed. And Carol had insisted on taking a bunch of spices he'd never heard of. He bit his tongue when she grabbed a canister labeled "Minced Prunes."

But when he tasted the dish she'd concocted on the gas stove, he accidentally moaned.

"What?" he glared at everyone when he realized they were all staring.

"I thought we'd say the blessing," Hershel said.

"Well say it to Carol. J.C. didn't make this. And say it quick. Whatever the hell it is, this shit is good!"

"You've never had Moroccan chicken?" Carl laughed.

"Carl!" Rick warned sternly.

"It's a'right," Daryl surprised Rick by smiling. "Guess world cuisine never made it to my part o' Georgia."

Hershel recited a mercifully short grace and they all dug in.

After dinner, Lori was helping Carol clean up. She noticed Carol was trying to surreptitiously pack a tote bag with various items: cans of fruit and nuts, a jar of Nutella, tin of crackers, etc. She wasn't going to say anything until Carol slipped in a corkscrew and two bottles of cabernet.

"So," she said. "Looks like somebody's going to have a more fun night than I am."

"What?" Carol blushed.

"Sorry," Lori said. "It's just weird being the only one totally sober. But I do get to notice more things."

"What things?" Carol asked.

"Like the way Daryl was looking at you all through dinner."

"Looking at me like what?"

"Like you were a big ol' helping of Moroccan chicken," Lori laughed.

"No, Daryl's not like that," Carol replied.

"Well, what is he like?"

"Don't know yet."

"I bet you'll be able to tell me tomorrow," Lori winked.

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"You okay?" she asked as he sat on the settee and took off his boots. She was trying to ask if he had recovered from his earlier freak out.

"Take more'n two glasses of wine to get me drunk, if that's what you mean," he said.

"No. I know that. That's why I snatched two bottles," she gestured with her flashlight toward the tote bag.

"You're good," he smirked.

As she got the fireplace going, they were bombarded with the sound of ice pellets hitting the roof.

"Looks like we made it just in time," she said. "Here, take the flashlight. There's a big jug of water in the bathroom if you want to get cleaned up."

"Sure you don't wanna go first?" he asked. "Them soaps look way too fancy for me."

"You just go on now," she said. She had to be last if she wanted to make an entrance.

When he came out ten minutes later, she was lighting the last of the candles. "You smell good," she said. "My turn."

After rummaging through the tote bag, Daryl sat down at the foot of the bed and opened one of the bottles. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then twenty five.

Finally, the bathroom door slowly swung open.

"I tried to go easy on this bottle, but you were takin' forev—" The sound stopped coming out, but his mouth didn't close.

She stood in the doorway afraid to move. Speechless was good, right? But maybe it was horror he was feeling. Oh, crap.

They'd been rummaging through one of the houses when she'd stopped to flip through a two-year desk calendar. She realized it had to be somewhere around Valentine's Day. So when she'd found the red outfit—her mother used to call such things a "penoir"—she couldn't resist taking it.

"Is this—is this okay?" she asked. She could only guess at what he was thinking since he had so far not regained the power of speech. "Look, Daryl, I—" she stammered. "I mean—I'm not asking you to play house or anything. Just—just keeping me from freezing to death would be fine."

She couldn't bear it any longer. "Say something!"

"Turn around," he finally whispered.

Nervously, she turned and heard his breath catch. The back was cut so low, she'd been afraid her whole rear end was going to hang out. But when she'd checked in the bathroom mirror, the shiny red fabric draped just so, dipping slightly below the small of her back.

"Look," she began, her back still to him. "God, I feel like some evil queen who's trapped you in a tower of ice to take advantage of you."

"Hey, uh—I'm not real experienced," he said, "But if you're into role playin', I'll give it a shot." He chuckled.

"Stop," she laughed.

"Much as I'd like to stare at your ass all night, you should prob'ly turn around and come 'ere."

He handed her a quarter-filled wine bottle. Since he wasn't jumping out of his skin anymore, it must have done the trick for him. She realized she could actually use a little courage herself and downed it quickly.

"You didn't have to do that, ya know," he said.

"Do what?"

He reached out and lightly placed a hand on her hip, caressing the silky fabric. "This."

"Oh. It's Valentine's Day. I think. I mean—it could be."

"I didn't get you nothin'," he said.

"Yes you did," she replied. "You got me this place."

"Ain't no big deal," he muttered. "You deserve more."

She knelt down in front of him and rested her palm against his face. "You've given me so much, Daryl. You have no idea."

He surprised her by leaning in first, capturing her lips with his own. The kiss was timid at first, his mouth barely brushing hers. The she flicked her tongue across his bottom lip and felt him grab the back of her head. His lips parted and his tongue slid against hers.

He suddenly broke away.

"Don't get your hopes up," he said. "I'm prob'ly not so good at this."

"Lucky for you," she smiled, "I am."

She left a trail of kisses down his neck and across his collarbone as she unbuttoned his flannel shirt. Still on her knees, she unsnapped his jeans and started on his zipper.

"Carol," he said, grasping her chin and making her look at him.

She knew what he was going to say. But hearing the way her name sounded rolling off his tongue made her want to do it all the more.

"You don't have'ta…"

"I want to."

"Oh, Jesus," he gasped, lying back as she took him in her mouth.

He reached out and threaded his fingers through the back of her hair.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he repeated as she worked up and down the length of him.

When she gripped him with one hand and used her mouth at the same time, she felt him pulling her away.

"Jesus, Carol. I can't—" he tried to catch his breath. "Come 'ere. Want this to last."

She climbed up beside him on the bed.

"You didn't need this," he said, nodding toward the nightgown as he slid down a slender, red strap and kissed her shoulder. "You're beautiful just the way you are," he murmured against her skin.

"Daryl Dixon. You were wrong," she smiled. "You are very good at this."

He pulled the filmy fabric down, releasing her breasts.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

"What?"

"I didn't know."

"Didn't know I had breasts?" she giggled.

"'Course I did. Just couldn'ta imagined nothin' so perfect if I tried."

She was going to make some glib, self-deprecating remark. But his mouth closed over a nipple and her brain couldn't form the words. He gripped the hem of her gown, raising it above her hips. Then his fingers found the heat between her thighs. She inhaled sharply when one slipped inside her.

"This a'right?" he asked.

"Yes." She reached down and guided his thumb higher, showing him how to touch her.

"Like this?" he asked, his thumb circling slowly.

"Oh, yes," she replied, closing her eyes. "Yes. Yes…yes."

While his hand continued its delicate assault on her senses, his tongue snaked around her nipple, mimicking the same slow circling of his thumb. This exquisite combination made her grip the bedspread to stop her hands from trembling. She felt the pressure of his thumb increase as another finger dipped into her. Bunching the covers into her hands tighter and tighter, she felt as if she were standing on the edge of a waterfall. Then his teeth gently caught her nipple and she just let go. Tumbled over, falling and falling and falling.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

He kept working his tongue on her breasts and his hand against her until her last quiver subsided.

"Did you just-?" he asked. "Was that-?"

"Yes." She struggled to find more words. "Need you. Inside me. Please."

He positioned his legs between hers. Her eyes were still closed, and she felt his breath on her ear. "You sure 'bout this?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Then look at me," he said, his face now hovering over hers.

"What?" she asked, opening her eyes.

"Look at me. I want to see you."

"You mean while we—"

He nodded.

He was supposed to be the shy one, and yet she could not imagine anything more terrifyingly intimate.

She was suddenly, inexplicably afraid.

She was over 40. She'd been married, for God's sake. And the thought of looking into someone's eyes while they made love had never even occurred to her. Who did that? She was now the one jumping out of her skin. God, give a guy a blowjob and he loses all sense of propriety. Staring into someone's eyes while they—that would be worse than being naked. That would be like… It would be like… well, it would be like he could look right into her, see who she really was. She didn't think she could bear it.

"Daryl. I don't—"

"Hey," he said, trailing his fingers down her cheek and back up again. "We trust each other, right?"

She had waited so long to get to this point, for him to feel comfortable with her—to know that he was safe. She couldn't be the one to freak out now. And as quickly as it came, her panic melted away.

"Okay," she said.

So she watched him watching her… saw the candlelight and shadow play across his face as he rubbed against her slick folds. Saw his eyes darken when he finally pushed into her for the first time, and widen when her hips rose up to meet him. Saw his mouth open and form the words—a flurry of words: "So fuckin' good, Carol. You feel so fuckin' good. Jesus. Fuck. Wanted you for so fuckin' long. So fuckin' beautiful. So fuckin' warm. So wet. Fuck."

Saw him smile every time she said the only word she was capable of saying: "Yes. Yes. Yes." Saw him kiss each of her hands before he entwined their fingers and held them above her on the bed. Saw him gasp when she wrapped her legs around him. Saw every emotion cross his face as he climbed closer and closer to the edge. Saw how he tried so hard not to let go. Saw the look when he couldn't hold back any longer. Saw his eyes and felt herself falling into them.

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The covers were so warm she almost didn't realize he wasn't pressed against her back.

"Daryl?"

"Over here. Check this out."

The blinds were up and he was standing in front of the window. She slid her arms around his waist and stared out into a frozen world sparkling in the grey dawn. Daggers of ice clung to every rooftop like strings of Christmas lights. The round patios at the back of each house had turned to white miniature ice rinks. The alley behind the garages was still black, but shimmered like a ribbon of glass.

"Feels like I'm in a snow globe," she said.

"Hey, uh—" he turned to face her. "You still up for that Evil Queen thing?" He winked.

"I should probably get dressed and start on breakfast for everybody," she said with a frown.

"Let 'em fend for themselves today," he said, leading her back to bed.

TWDTWDTWDTWDTWDTWDTWDTWDTWD

Now Carol was the one hopelessly fluffing and punching at her lumpy sleeping bag as Daryl snored softly beside her. She thought about Rick's little pep talk earlier—how they had to push a little harder. But it wasn't his words that steeled her resolve. It was the memory of what Daryl Dixon was like when he got a little privacy. Tomorrow, they were going to take that damn prison.


End file.
